Page 44 of Grouch-ish

When the clock starts ticking, I’m surprised how quickly people remove their winter jackets and I’m equally stunned by what they consider appropriate to wear into the lake. Plungers are in a variety of bikinis and speedos; some in board shorts and one-piece suits, while others are heading for the lake in wet suits and snorkeling gear like they’ll be hanging out for a while. Still others have innertubes around their waists. One guy is wearing a clown outfit.

So I finally understand when Pear repeatedly reassured me no one would be looking at me in my black boxer briefs.

“Other than to maybe check out what you’re packing,” she’d teased when we pulled up and parked in the public lot, which was overflowing with other fools like us.

As for Pear, she’s in a bright red one-piece suit, like a lifeguard might wear and my yank-bank is full to overflowing of fantasies of what I want to do to her.

As the countdown starts for the race to the water, Pear takes my hand, squeezing it tight, and I glance down at our fingers locked together. Gazing back up at her, her eyes gleam and she gives me a teasing grimace.

Fuck, do I like this woman.

When the pop of a confetti gun goes off, Pear starts shrieking and runs toward the lake, tugging at my hand.

“Fuck,” I holler, as others cry out as well at the first connection with the icy lake. The lake is actually warmer than the air, but it makes no difference. Forty-degrees or four, the fresh water is fucking freezing.

Still, I follow Pear thigh deep. We’ve been warned not to submerge our heads. Pear drops my hand, sucks in a large breath and holds, grits her teeth, and drops below the surface up to her shoulders. Like a graceful swan taking off from the water, she shoots upright and lets out a delighted scream before scrubbing at her face. Her pale skin pebbles. That red one-piece is seersuckers to her body, outlining the contours of her curves. Her nipples are erect and poking at the tight material like they could cut through the fabric. She’s as luscious as a ripe pear, and I want to take a huge bite of her.

Instead, I follow suit and drop below the surface to my shoulders before slowly standing to my full height again. Pear is shivering, clutching her arms in front of her chest, and I reach for her wrists and tug her to me. She stumbles in the cold water but when my mouth crashes against hers, I suddenly don’t feel the chill. The heat of her mouth is one thing, but Pear kisses me like she wants to devour me. Like she wants to pull me into her soul and keep me there.

Her eagerness is as refreshing as this frigid bath, cleansing me of the negativity of past relationships and opening my lungs to fresh air. I feel like I can breathe for the first time in a long while. Maybe my heart is open as well, to the potential of a new status.

Taken.

By this pear of a woman, trembling in the cold lake while clinging to me with her warm mouth and hot-as-sin body.

“Done?” I ask, pulling back and tipping my head to hers. Her lips are red, her eyes bright blue.

She nods, tucking her arms tighter to her chest, to cover her breasts and the hard nips protruding against her suit. I duck and clasp her around the back of her legs, hitching her up and over my shoulder in a fireman’s hold.

Pear squeals again, slapping my ass once before tucking her thumbs into the waistband of my boxer briefs as a means to hold onto something.

“Careful there. Don’t want everyone to see the good side of me.”

“And your backside is the good side?” she grunts as I carry her over my shoulder.

“Had enough people tell me to kiss their ass.”

“That would mean their ass was good, not yours.” Pear huffs.

“Semantics. My ass. Their ass.” I turn my head and nip at her leg, just below her ass.

Her retaliation is pinching mine.

I set Pear down on a blanket covering the cool sand. We both do an awkward dance of rubbing off the water with towels and trying to redress with shaky limbs. The recommendation is to immediately change out of the wet clothing and the public bathroom is open for such a thing. There is a celebration for all who took the plunge, but Pear suggests we return to my truck.

“I just wanted to do the Plunge. Support Special Olympics.” She shrugs, glancing down at her lap once we are inside the cab. A towel covers her lower body. She’s wearing her winter jacket zipped up to her neck and her boots, minus pants. The seat warmers are on; the heat is set to full blast.

“I wanted to symbolically wash away any lingering negative aura.”

I’m curious what toxins she feels still waffle around her. “Like what?”

Lifting her head, she absentmindedly stares out the windshield at the beach dotted with people in various states of changing their clothes and toasting to one another.

“Reggie, mainly. The financial mess. I guess I just saw this moment as closure.” She finally looks at me. “Or a baptism.”

“That’s rather deep,” I tease but instantly regret the joke. Swallowing hard, I add, “I get it, though. That did feel good.” I nod toward the lake. “I feel different.”

However, a seven-minute dip in the lake isn’t the only thing that’s made a change. It’s been seven days with this woman. One full week has made me feel better about myself.